


Let the Sky Fall

by wildwinterwitch



Series: Great Laws [2]
Category: Blackpool, Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-26 03:03:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildwinterwitch/pseuds/wildwinterwitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rose is at a rehab facility when she learns of Sherlock's death. Set 18 months after <i>The Great Laws of the Human Soul</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let the Sky Fall

One  
Injury

  
_You saw my pain, washed out in the rain_  
Broken glass, saw the blood run from my veins  
But you saw no fault, no cracks in my heart  
And you knelt beside, my hope torn apart  
— Mumford  & Sons, _Ghosts That We Knew_

“Hello, Sir,” Lisa said, lingering in the doorway. Both her hands were behind her back, and her expression was a curious mixture of apprehension and mischief.

“Good morning, Lisa,” he said. “What can I do for you?” He invited her into his office with a smile and a gesture. She hesitated briefly, and he raised his eyebrow. Had she really remembered his birthday? Was that actually cake she was hiding behind her back?

“Bad news first,” she decided. “Have you seen this?” She revealed the contents of her right hand. It was a copy of that morning’s Sun. _Super Sleuth Is Dead_ , it announced, _Suicide of Fake Genius. Fraudulent detective takes his own life_. There was a very small photo of Sherlock in his deerstalker hat, an insult worse than the words covering the entire front page. 

“What?” he asked, standing so he could reach for the paper. “Give me the sensible version.”

“I’m sorry, Sir,” she said, letting go of the paper. 

Peter dropped heavily into his chair. It couldn’t be. True, Sherlock had fallen from grace recently, particularly when the American ambassador’s children were kidnapped. Peter had never believed Sherlock would ever do such a thing. It was his firm belief that he had been set up. And now this? “I don’t believe it,” he muttered, skimming the horrible bit of prose that gave away all the lurid details. “Sherlock would never do such a thing.”

“He’s dead, Sir,” Lisa insisted mildly.

“Aye,” he sighed, ruffling his hair as he dropped the newspaper onto his blotter. 

“I believe some cake is in order,” she continued. From behind her back Lisa produced a plate of cupcakes smothered with heavy caps of glazing. “Happy birthday, Sir.”

Peter smiled, but he was still thinking of Sherlock. “Thank you, Lisa. That’s very kind of you.”

“I thought you might be staying at The Cedars over the weekend,” she said. “I made them only this morning, so they should be good tomorrow too. I’ve seen on the duty roster that you’ve taken the day off.” She put the plate on the extra table.

“You still have trouble sleeping, then?” he asked.

“It’s getting better, sir,” she said. “Give Rose my love. How is she doing?”

He smiled at her. “Very well, better than expected. Thank you.”

Lisa lingered a little, but before he could ask her if there was anything else that she needed, she turned and left his office.

-:-

“Happy Birthday, my love,” Rose said, stretching to kiss his cheek. Peter looked at her, and after a beat or so he smiled, but his eyes lit up only briefly. He could see that she was concealing something in her lap, and his heart skipped a beat. She had got him something; after all that had happened she had still had the time, and the energy, to get him something. “Hey, what’s with the face?” she asked.

When he smiled this time, he allowed her to infect him with her cheerfulness. He really ought to take comfort from her more. “It’s just work,” he half-lied. Life at the Yard had been mad lately, on top of everything else. He had imagined he would spend his birthday differently than he had. At least he’d been able to take the day off. A long weekend with Rose lay ahead of him. But then there was the awful piece of news he’d had, and, judging from her mood, she hadn’t heard yet.

“This is for you,” Rose said, holding the small gift up for him. He took the carefully wrapped box from her and enclosed her fingers in his hand as he sat down beside her. 

“Thank you. You shouldn’t have, though,” he said. He hated himself for using that platitude. He had promised himself not to use it with her, but somehow he couldn’t quite stop himself. He didn’t even want to begin to imagine the trouble she’d gone to for him in order to get him a present. A shadow flitted over her face, and he hated himself even more. Raising her hand to his lips, he tried to make amends for his words. “I’m sorry, Rose. It’s just…”

“Please, Peter. You promised not to wrap me in cotton wool. From anyone else I can take it, but not from you. I need you to keep me sane,” she said. She smiled as she spoke, squeezing his fingers, but her voice had taken on that teary timbre.

“Will you let me open it?” he asked, tugging lightly at her hand; she wouldn’t let him go.

“Of course. I’m sorry.”

“How are you today?” he asked as he started to untie the ribbon. He noticed that his fingers were shaking a little. What was wrong with him?

“Antsy. I want to get outside for a walk,” she replied.

“The weather is dreadful,” Peter commented with a nod at the stormy gloom outside. It was one of these days when it never got really light.

“I know,” Rose said. “But I feel trapped inside.”

“What about a swim? The outdoor pool is heated, right?” he asked. The indoor and the outdoor pools connected, and he’d seen the steam rise off the hot water only to be torn apart by the wind. No one in their right mind would want to go outside in this kind of weather, but it held a certain appeal for him.

“Yeah,” Rose said impatiently. “Go on! Open it!” 

“Aye, ma’am.” His gaze drifted to her legs, as it always did. If he didn’t know what he was looking at, he wouldn’t have noticed a thing. But he knew, and so the space around his heart filled with relief and dread at the same time. Rose was wearing her own clothes, and he knew that if she were to stand, her jeans would ride very low on her hips. She had lost a lot of weight, but no matter how much he encouraged her to eat, she only ate well in his company, and then only if they went to the restaurant in town. They had become regulars there in the weeks she’d been here.

“I feel restless, somehow. As if… I know it sounds pathetic, but I have a feeling something is going to happen. Something is in the air. And it’s not the storm outside,” she added, glancing at the gloom outside the window. The trees were bending to the force of the wind, and the first drops of rain had started to fall. Peter was glad that he had made it to the clinic before the storm was getting worse.

He tore the wrapping paper off the small box. Since it wasn’t marked in any way, he became genuinely curious as he lifted the lid. Wrapped in tissue paper, he found a box of condoms. For a few moments he stared at it, then he looked up at Rose.

“It’s been a while, and I’m not sure if the ones we have are still good to use,” she said softly. “I know it’s not the world’s best birthday gift, but…”

“Rose,” he said, putting both of the boxes aside to gather her in an embrace. In the process, he scooted to the edge of the sofa for a better angle. “This is excellent news. And so soon. Didn’t they say it was going to take months? Even with the bone-knitting medication?”

She smiled coyly at him, but then she tucked the tip of her tongue into the corner of her mouth. She shrugged. “I don’t want to dwell on it too much.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’m very glad that you’re healing faster than expected. It hurts, seeing you like this,” he said, leaning in for a kiss. This time, it wasn’t just a platitude. The sight of her in her wheelchair or on crutches made him wince every time, and if he could, he’d take her place. She’d been on painkillers most of the time, but the worst part was that she was at this rehab facility. She was getting great care, but it also meant that he was deprived of being with Rose for most of the week.

“I have my period,” she said. “That’s what makes the condoms even a more rubbish gift. We can’t really use them now.”

“Oh.” He blinked and tugged at his earlobe.

“It means that I can have children,” she said. 

“Oh, thanks for clearing that up,” he said wryly, when really he’d have liked to whoop. He held her even closer. After the accident, the doctors hadn’t been able to assess the full extent of her injuries, which basically meant that although there seemed nothing wrong organically, there was no telling if she’d be able to have children. This bit of news provided hope. 

He gave her a squeeze. What was he thinking? They had been together for eighteen months, one of which she had spent here. He was getting ahead of himself. 

“I’ll get you something nice when I’m out of here,” Rose promised. Then she cupped his face. “Peter, love. You’re miles away.”

“I’m sorry, Rose. I don’t need something nice. I’m happy that you’re doing so well.”

“Did I overwhelm you with my news?” she asked.

He smiled, opting for honesty. “A bit.”

She bit her lip. “That’s not all that’s troubling you, though, is it?”

“No.”

“I can’t believe it either,” she said. “He’d never do such a thing, no matter how bad he messed things up. If he messed up.”

“I’d hoped you hadn’t seen the news,” Peter said, resting his head against her shoulder. It felt so good to be with her.

“Well, you know me.”

He chuckled. “I do.”

“What about a swim, so you can clear your mind?” she suggested. 

“Aye,” he mumbled. If anything, a few laps in the clinic’s pool might help clear his mind. Although he’d thought of hardly anything else on the short drive here, he’d come to no conclusion. His thoughts had begun to run wild, distracting him and the weather had been so bad that he’d needed to concentrate on the road. The wind was picking up by the minute, and he had no doubt that the fully blown storm was going to be every bit as bad as the weatherman predicted. 

He carried their towels as they made their way to the pool. Rose walked beside him with the help of her crutches, getting her walk after all. The eastern wing of the mansion that housed the clinic connected with the modern annexe via a glassed-in portico. As they walked its carpeted, heated length he shuddered at the idea of the drama unfolding outside. They couldn’t see anything in the inky blackness outside the glass-fronted side had become a dark mirror.

At the pool, he helped Rose into the water, and he winced a little at how relieved she was when the water took the weight off her pelvis. She was healing fast, and he wondered if maybe it was a bit too fast, that her body would benefit from more rest.

Apart from two other swimmers the pool was deserted at this time of day. Most of the other patients were having dinner. Peter wondered if the kitchen was open once everyone had been fed and watered. Leaving the mansion was irresponsible in this weather, as was ordering in, and he hoped he’d get something to eat apart from Lisa’s cupcakes, delicious as they no doubt were.

“Why do you think he did it?” Rose asked as they swam side-by-side. She noticed that instead of his customary crawl, he was taking it easy. Which was because he wasn’t trying to run.

“I have no idea,” he said. “That’s what bothers me so.”

“Hmm,” Rose panted.

They swam two laps in silence.

“Actually, that’s not true,” he said. “What bothers me is what John is going through now.”

Rose didn’t reply at once. “I didn’t die, though.”

“I didn’t know that at the time,” Peter said. “No one did.”

“All the blood, and the… heaviness. You were so… limp and still. Like a doll,” Peter said. He’d never discussed this with Rose before. He’d never wanted to tell her what the first week after her accident had been like, ever, because it was sheer horror. He didn’t want her to feel any worse than she already did. But he hadn’t talked to anyone about it, and he knew that Rose was the only person he’d confide in. “There was so much blood.”

Glancing to his side, he saw that Rose was still swimming, her moves powerful, her rhythm unbroken. Her gaze was directed straight ahead in concentration and contemplation. He wasn’t sure if she’d even heard what he’d said.

“You cut yourself pretty badly,” she said out of the blue.

“It was nothing,” he protested, the words coming to him from that well of scripted replies he found so handy to rely on when he didn’t know what else to say. What could he say? He’d needed to help her. How could he do nothing when she lay like that, possibly bleeding to death?

“The stillness was the worst thing,” he continued, driven on now by a recklessness fed by his need to get rid of the images. “You were ashen. I’d never seen anything like it.” She hadn’t moaned, but she’d looked at him, still startled into silence by what had happened. The enormity of it all had overpowered her. Then, when she’d recovered her faculties, she first asked about the children, if they were safe. They were. But at what cost, he’d wondered bitterly. Of course she’d done the right thing. He would have done the same thing, despite his training. They were children, for Heaven’s sake.

“I was glad you were there,” Rose said.

He stopped mid-movement and began to tread water. When she noticed she had lost him, she stopped as well and turned around. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” he protested, still not fully appreciating what she was on about. “No, please, I want to know.”

“You gave me something to anchor myself to,” she said. “It was hell when they pulled you away.”

He nodded. He knew the feeling. He’d felt like he was abandoning her. She smiled at him, then she resumed her swimming. He followed her, and for almost twenty minutes they swam side by side. The walk back to her room took them longer because she was exhausted, and for a few moments Peter — the romantic in him — wondered whether he should carry her or whether he should just grab one of the unused wheelchairs lining the corridor. 

“Don’t you dare,” Rose hissed at him through clenched teeth.

In the shower in her bathroom, she sat on the stool, and she looked every bit as exhausted as she was. Even if the weather permitted it, she was in no shape to go out for a meal. Not without her wheelchair. “Do you mind washing my hair for me?” she asked.

He dropped his swimming trunks and joined her in the shower. He was glad she had asked, terrified she'd want to be by herself. Taking a shower together had become a cherished ritual, a ritual that had introduced a new kind of intimacy in their relationship. It wasn’t just about washing each other. It was about enjoying each other while they couldn’t have sex. There were ways, of course, but showering was something else entirely.

Peter enjoyed washing her heavy, honey-coloured hair and running his hands over her slick, soft skin. He wondered if she’d ever want to have him inside her when he had the same power over her with his fingers and his tongue as he did with his cock. The idea that from now on they were allowed to have ‘proper’ sex again made him a tad nervous. He looked at the light red rivulets streaming down the insides of her thighs, and he was glad for the reprieve. He’d never thought he’d need get used to the idea of making love to her. It had to do, of course, with seeing her so broken, and the realisation that she was fragile. Just like he was. He was afraid of hurting her, particularly when he thought back to some of the occasions when he had been rather relentless in his love-making. When he’d driven himself to more than an orgasm; to oblivion. 

“I never hurt you when I made love to you, did I?” he asked as he massaged her scalp.

Rose groaned. “What? No, no, you didn’t. Oh, Peter, this is so good. I’ve been waiting for this all week.”

“You’d tell me, though, if I hurt you?”

“What’s brought this on? Of course I would.”

“I was just thinking. Your injury has changed things.”

She broke away from him as far as she could, given her position on the stool in front of him. “Peter.”

He told her what had been on his mind.

“I suppose you’re right,” she replied.

“I like the heavy petting. And the blow jobs and the licking,” he amended.

Rose laughed. “I do too. Although it sometimes feels a bit illicit. Like the stuff we did as teenagers.”

“Aye.”

“Let’s just see where this takes us.”

“Good idea.”

“Although,” she said, touching his pelvic bone, “I won’t get to use it as an excuse any more.” She’d once told him that an orgasm was almost as good as her painkillers when it came to pain relief.

“We can always use my excuse,” he suggested.

“Oh, and what’s that?” She trailed her fingers dangerously close to his groin.

“I can’t get enough of you. Even in my wise old age,” he joked, but sobered. “I love you, Rose.” And then he did something he hadn’t even thought about. “Marry me, Rose. That is, of course, if you want to. Become my wife?”

Rose stared at him.

“Sorry, bad timing,” he mumbled. “Come on, let’s get the lather out of your hair.”

“Yes. I want to marry you.”

He grinned madly. “Do they have any bubbly here?”

“You mean you hadn’t planned this?”

“No.”

“Do you know what… No, hang on. You’ve done this before.”

“Badly, according to her. Are you sure you want this? I didn’t mean to catch you unawares. In fact, I surprised myself. Never thought that was possible,” he stammered. “It’s okay if you don’t. Want to marry me.”

“I do. Let’s just not rush into it, yeah?”

“You really…”

“Yes.” She wiped at a trail of suds that was making its way down her forehead.

“Let’s take care of this first, shall we?”

“Yeah. Peter.” She closed her hair as he turned on the water. 

So he was going to get married a second time. 

He set to work.

Two  
Recovery

  
_I know I'll never be me, without the security_  
Of your loving arms  
Keeping me from harm  
Put your hand in my hand  
— Adele, _Skyfall_  


The storm caused severe damage. The grounds of The Cedars looked like they hadn’t been touched by a gardener’s caring hand in at least four decades, Peter thought as he peeked through the gap in the curtains. Shivering, he went back to bed, where he molded his body to Rose’s. The bed was a bit wider and more homey than a hospital bed, but he couldn’t wait to be able to sleep in a proper bed, his or hers – he wasn’t picky - with Rose again. Particularly now that they were engaged. They’d have to choose one bed over the other. Or buy a new one.

Sherlock was dead.

Rose and he were getting married, but Sherlock was dead.

He held Rose very close. 

He had almost lost her too. She had survived the fall she had taken for the children. But at what cost? For a long time, they hadn’t known if she’d heal completely, or if she'd be able to have children. Even if she did conceive, the odds were that she’d have to have a caesarean to give birth. If ever she wanted to have his baby.

She snuggled up against him. Lying skin to skin with her was the best thing that had happened to him in a long time. She was curvy and soft and warm. When he held her, he forgot about all his troubles. Or at least he saw it from a different perspective, and she inspired him to find solutions. She always knew what to ask.

He nuzzled her hairline and her forehead with his nose and lips. His chest felt cold where, until he’d got up, her hair had covered him. The previous night, after dinner in her room, she hadn’t taken no for an answer and made love to him with her fingers and lips. “It’s your birthday, Peter. And you just proposed to me. Please,” she’d said. He’d let her. 

“Good morning,” she murmured.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked, afraid he’d woken her by leaving the bed. 

“Did you really ask me to marry you?” she asked.

“Aye.”

“I’m glad it wasn’t a dream.”

She kissed him.

“Sherlock wasn’t a dream, though.”

“No, I’m afraid not,” he replied.

-:-

“What is it like,” John asked. “Falling?”

“Terrifying, because you know what’s going to happen. Endless, because you can imagine the pain, and then it’s even worse. And relief, when you lie there and you don’t hurt. That comes later,” she said. John looked grey and very small.

“Thank you,” he said, mustering the strength to give her a small smile.

“It really does come later. I’m sure Sherlock didn’t feel a thing,” she said.

“They wouldn’t let me. Hold his hand,” John continued, reaching for the tea pot decorated with a black weather map of the UK. There was nary a trace of the devastating storm, apart from the scars it had left behind in the landscape and people’s homes.

So far, Rose had been brutally honest with John. Peter gazed into his tea as he waited for her reply. “That’s awful,” Rose said.

It was all John needed to hear. “How are you doing?” he asked bravely.

“Apart from the months of physio ahead of me? Good,” she said.

“There wasn’t a sound bone in his body,” John said, placing his cup in the deep saucer formed by his palm. “I’m sure that if he’d… I’m sorry. It’s good to hear that you’re making such good progress. And that the meds are working.”

“Call me if you need anything. Someone to talk to,” Rose offered, pushing herself up with the help of her crutches. She hated having to rely on them, but she needed them.

“Yeah, thanks,” John said, forcing a smile.

-:-

They went to Rose’s flat for the weekend. He’d been in several times to check on it, and the previous night he’d come to air it out and fill the fridge. When they arrived after the funeral, the place was a bit chilly, but Peter felt less claustrophobic than when he’d been here without her. The flat just wasn’t the same without her. Indeed, his workdays weren’t the same without her, no matter how much they spoke on the phone or skyped each other.

“It’s good to be home,” Rose sighed. Her crutches clicked in the silence of the hall. They had gone to her flat rather than his house, which was closer to the cemetery, because there were no stairs to climb. Her wheelchair was still in the boot of the car, just in case. Peter was a bit loath to leave it there for the entirety of the weekend.

“Help me with my hair?” Rose asked, her weight propped on her left arm as she held out her right hand for him.

Peter smiled. “Aye.” They both needed to feel alive. Also, he was chilled to the bone, despite the warmth of 221B Baker Street and the heating in the car. The storm had left dry, cold weather behind. He hurried to close the patio doors. Now that the light was fading, the warmth would leave the flat quickly. He turned up the dial of the heating.

They took their time in the shower, and when they were finished, Peter picked Rose up and carried her to the bed to finish what they had started. They were about to make love for the first time since her accident, and he was nervous.

“I want to rediscover you,” Rose said.

Trust her to guide him along. As in the shower, they took their time to reacquaint themselves with the other’s body. The fall had left scars behind on her skin, a reminder of the fragility of her body. They were still angry looking and he soothed each one with a kiss. He was very gentle when he finally slid into her, afraid of hurting her, no matter how much she encouraged him.

“Let’s try something else,” she said, pushing him off her. “Sit with your back against the headboard.” When he was comfortable, she gave him a few strokes before she straddled him. “There. This way you won’t have to worry.”

He liked the angle and the freedom to kiss and caress her as she rode him. Sometimes, he held tight to her, only to let go so he could nuzzle the side of her neck, just below her ear. Eventually, of course, it had to stop. When she came, she had tears in her eyes, and he was glad for them. He had put them there, and they were his as much as hers. “I love you, Rose.”

-:-

“I still think there’s something off about the Moriarty thing,” Lisa insisted. It was Christmas Eve, and the news had just come through that the inquiry regarding the suicide of Sherlock Holmes was closed. The case wasn’t theirs to solve, but because it was so spectacular, everyone at the Yard knew about it.

“How do you mean?” Peter asked, offering her the last of the cookies Rose had made. He had been patient with her. Nothing indicated that there was any sign of Moriarty. If, indeed, he existed. It all boiled down to the fact that it was as Sherlock had said in his ‘note’ to John, that he had made him up. But John Watson didn’t believe it, and neither did Lisa.

Peter wasn’t so sure what he believed. It puzzled him. He had unusually good instincts and could form very clear opinions. In this case, however, they were a bit muddled. He trusted John. After all, he was the man who knew Sherlock best, apart from Mycroft, of course. Peter was certain that the elder Holmes knew something, but he was taciturn and clearly wasn’t going to reveal anything. He wished he could say he sensed it, but the Holmes case wasn’t his. And neither was it Lisa’s.

“I believe Sherlock Holmes is alive,” Lisa insisted.

Peter sighed. He would have mocked everyone else; someone had started a campaign in the streets, putting up posters that claimed Sherlock was real and that so was Moriarty. Of course, responses had cropped up overnight, claiming the opposite. Moriarty, for one, had vanished off the face of the earth. And so had Rich Brook.

“Why would he fake his death?” Peter asked, humouring her.

“To protect someone? To hide something? I don’t know,” she said.

“John would know. He must be a damn good actor to pretend he’s lost his… friend,” Peter pointed out.

And then Lisa said something horrible. “Perhaps he doesn’t know.”

Peter leaned back in his chair.

“I know it’s crazy, Sir. I’m sorry. Happy Christmas!” Lisa said, placing a small package before him, the gift-wrap the kind he’d seen Claire and Mohinder use in the bookshop.

“Thank you,” he said, reaching into his bag by the side of the desk to return the gesture. “Happy Christmas to you too.”

-:-

“That’s awful,” Rose said, propping herself up on her elbow. He had just told her about the inquiry being closed, and the posters. Of course, she had seen them; they were all over the city. They were at his place, the crutches propped against the side of the chest of drawers, where Rose had left them when she’d arrived to stay earlier.

He played with locks of her hair, wrapped them around his hand and brushed them with his fingers. They had a whole week ahead of them, mostly to themselves, too. They were going to spend Christmas Day with Jackie and Mickey, and there was to be no physio for her. Chris, her therapist, had given her a set of exercises she could do at home, without the use of any equipment. They were going away to Glasgow for a few days over Hogmanay, and he was looking forward to showing her his hometown.

Rose suddenly stopped playing with his chest hair. She went oddly still and remained so for a couple of minutes.

“Penny for your thoughts.”

“I just had an idea,” she said, smiling.

“Do you feel like sharing?” he asked.

“I’m not sure I can,” she replied.

“Ah, Christmas secrets. But they seem to make you happy,” he pointed out, shifting a bit and pushing her hair behind her ear.

“Very.”

-:-

On their way home — how he liked to refer to his place as home, now that it had Rose in it — they stopped at the cemetery. Peter had had no idea that Rose had liked Sherlock so much that she wanted to pay him a visit in the frozen whiteness that was Christmas this year. Ever since the storm, it had been cold, and the snow that had fallen in early December, was still about, making the world a bit prettier.

“It’s something I need to do for John,” Rose said.

That, he could understand. “Can I come with you?”

“I was hoping you’d offer your arm.”

He grinned and got out of the warm cocoon of the car. His breath hung before him in pale clouds as he went around the car to help Rose. They went straight to Sherlock’s grave, where John was already waiting. His face was red with the cold, and he was rubbing his gloved hands and shifting his weight to keep warm.

“Hello, John,” Rose said.

“Hello.” A small smile.

“Merry Christmas.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” he said, acknowledging Peter’s presence with a nod.

“I’ve got something for you,” Rose said, reaching into her pocket for a cream-coloured, expensive envelope. John clearly hadn’t expected a gift, but he took off his glove to take it from her. “Open it. Please.”

John frowned, but obliged her. Peter had trouble concealing his curiosity, but from where he was standing, he couldn’t see what was on the card John pulled out of the envelope. All he knew was that John’s face was blank for a while, until he understood the contents of the card.

“Who…?” John asked, struggling for words. There were so many things he wanted to say, Peter could see that.

“Just a bit of deduction, John,” Rose said.

“So he’s…?” He didn’t dare finish the sentence.

“Happy Christmas, John,” Rose said, smiling. John hugged her and clapped him on the shoulder, so all Peter could do was play along.

“What was that about?” Peter asked in the warmth of the car.

“I gave him a clue, and he deduced,” she said.

“About Sherlock.”

“Yes.”

“He’s alive?” he asked, in astonishment.

“I believe so, yes.”

“Why?”

“You remember Irene Adler?” Rose asked. “She contacted me after her 'death', warning me of Travis.”

It took him a while to come up with the only reasonable explanation, outlandish though it was. It surprised him that Mycroft Holmes would agree to such a thing. On second thought, he wouldn’t. Sherlock Holmes had many contacts. One of them surely had it in his power to provide people with a new identity. “You mean she… became someone else? And so did Sherlock Holmes?”

She squeezed his thigh.

“What was on the card?” She wouldn’t pass information such as this on in writing.

“John’s eagle, from a mediaeval book,” Rose said. 

“Ah.” He had no idea how John could make that deduction.

“Adler is German for eagle.”


End file.
